


And as the seasons change, I love you more

by Teatrolley



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, a lot of fluff involved, also marriage / proposal, that's it really, this is just a quick lil thing, two dorks very much in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:35:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4042507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teatrolley/pseuds/Teatrolley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I love you,” John murmurs when he pulls back, panting and with pink cheeks. </p><p>“Mm,” Sherlock says, because after four years of being together they can joke about it. “Why?”</p><p>“Don’t fish for compliments,” John says, but he kisses Sherlock again, softly this time. </p><p>Later, when Sherlock goes to the bathroom, he finds a sticky note on the mirror saying “Because you make my chest feel like it’s on fire, but in the good way.”</p><p>_________________</p><p>A year in the lives of John and Sherlock, essentially</p>
            </blockquote>





	And as the seasons change, I love you more

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so this was written one late evening as finals procrastination, and I was in dire need of some fluff, so this is very fluffy. It is also not beta'ed in any way, but I think you'll survive. Enjoy!

**Winter**

Sherlock wakes up on January the 1st of 2021 with an empty but warm spot on the sheets next to him, and condensation covering the window that really needs fixing, and, despite the totally artificial nature of New Year’s, something feels different. He allows himself to close his eyes once more, and doesn’t feel the usual restlessness of inactivity. When John reappears, he puts a cup of tea on Sherlock’s bedside table and crawls back under the covers, and Sherlock twist his fingers in the hem of John’s jumper. John runs his hands through Sherlock’s hair, and none of them say anything, but neither of them have to. 

John’s old room has been a home laboratory for 4 years, but there’s a chair in the corner, where John will sometimes sit, while Sherlock is doing his experiments, and while Sherlock never says, it feels strangely intimate to have John observe him at the moments where he is most concentrated and most himself. What he also never says, is how much he likes it.

“Drink your tea before it gets cold,” John says, and his voice has that soft tone that it gets early in the morning. When Sherlock opens his eyes, John is smiling down at him with a tender expression, and Sherlock raises himself to press a kiss to John’s temple. 

“Morning breath,” he mumbles, but John twists his head to kiss him anyway, and Sherlock doesn’t really mind.

\--

It’s February and it’s cold, and their flat never manages to fully heat up, so their sofa gets nearly permanently inhabited by John’s old duvet, and they never really bother to remove James Bond from the dvd player. They drink too many teas with too many sugars, and once or twice Sherlock ends up in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen when John is at work, watching her baking mince pies or biscuits and only tuning out half of her small-talk. 

When they’re on cases he and John huddle together for warmth, and Scotland Yard has stopped caring entirely by now. So much so that when Sherlock appears at a crime scene one day wearing John’s creamy jumper, no one bats an eyelid. 

John leaves for a medical conference for four days near the end of the month, and Sherlock wonders if science can explain the ache of missing him. He grows silent and sad and puts his fingers to his laptop screen when John Skype-calls him, as if he could touch him through the pixels. 

“You’re quiet,” John says, and it’s evening where he is even though the clock is only half two in London. He’s eating room-service pasta, and Sherlock hates this distance, but he likes the domesticity of it. 

“Distracted,” he says, and knows that John will forgive him the lie. 

“When I get home I’ll rim you and we’ll solve a murder,” John says, and Sherlock laughs for the first time in days and thinks of ‘I’m-heterosexual-John’ from years ago, and ponders how far they’ve come. 

“The flat doesn’t feel like home without you,” Sherlock says, because they’ve come far enough for him to be able to say this, too, now. 

“I don’t think the flat feels like home because of the flat,” John replies.

“No?”

“I think it feels like home because you’re in it.”

\--

When John finally comes back it’s 3 o’clock in the morning, and he crawls into bed next to Sherlock with gentle movements. Sherlock snuggles into him, only partly awake. 

“I’m home,” John whispers, and kisses the top of his hair.

“So am I,” Sherlock mumbles. 

**Spring**

In March Sherlock is ill with acute bronchitis for a week, and the bedroom floor is littered with paper towels and discarded clothing, and Sherlock hates it, he hates every bit of it, except maybe the one where John checks his temperature and brings him supplies of tea. And the part where he calls in sick for work, so he can stay home reading to Sherlock from his old medical textbooks, because they don’t have any fiction that Sherlock likes. Sherlock whines, and John smiles and tells him that he’s sweet, and Sherlock wonders if his fifteen year-old self, alone and full of hatred towards everybody, especially himself, could ever have imagined being loved like this. 

Towards the end of his illness he has two days where he is too weak to do anything, but strong enough to get out of bed, so he spends them lounging around in a very old uni-sweatshirt and some pyjama-pants, instead of his usual T-shirt-and-dressing-gown-combo. He doesn’t miss the way John’s eyes follow him everywhere. 

“It feels like you’re letting me in on a secret,” John says, when Sherlock asks why. Sherlock rolls his eyes but kisses John against the kitchen counter until they’re both breathless. 

“I love you,” John murmurs when he pulls back, panting and with pink cheeks. 

“Mm,” Sherlock says, because after four years of being together they can joke about it. “Why?”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” John says, but he kisses Sherlock again, softly this time. 

Later, when Sherlock goes to the bathroom, he finds a sticky note on the mirror saying “Because you make my chest feel like it’s on fire, but in the good way.”

When John’s moving into him gently that night, Sherlock says “You make my chest burn, too,” and they both laugh, because it sounds strange when you put it like that, and because they’re happy and in love.

\--

Somewhere along the line John’s day-old stubble starts getting tinted with grey, and Sherlock starts minding less when they have a few days without a case, and those two things are not necessarily related, but they’re both signs of the impending Future drawing nearer. 

In April they visit Sherlock’s parents for Easter and John agrees to babysit Molly’s child, while she spends a night out with her girlfriends. 

Sherlock’s mom talks to John about Sherlock’s childhood love for bees for half an hour at Easter, and his dad brings Sherlock to the office, where he pulls out the jewellery box containing his granddad’s old wedding ring. 

“You wouldn’t mi–“ Sherlock tries, but his dad interrupts him.

“We all like John. I think the size would fit him.”

Sherlock holds the silver band in his palm and considers the idea, but doesn’t make any decisions yet. 

John reassures Sherlock that he doesn’t have to be a part of the whole babysitting-Molly’s-daughter-ordeal when they get home, but when Sherlock finds John with her on the living room floor babbling away happily, he has a hard time drawing his eyes from the two of them. They almost never talk about Mary and the baby, but Sherlock knows that John wanted to be a father, and that the loss affected him more, than he usually lets on. 

When it turns out that the child has an affinity for chemistry, Sherlock spends an hour so engrossed in playing with her, that he almost doesn’t notice when John leaves the floor to go make tea. 

“I don’t mind children, really,” Sherlock murmurs into the dark later, when they’re in bed. It’s not a promise, but an opening for discussion. He smiles when John responds by intertwining their fingers.

“I don’t mind bees that much, either,” he says. 

They haven’t exactly come out to the world, and while the hype is less extreme, they are still b-list celebrities. They just don’t really bother hiding it anymore, and in result they have become SherlockAndJohn more than Sherlock and John to the tabloids and the news. 

They visit Sherlock’s parents, babysit Molly’s daughter, and become SherlockAndJohn, and finally Sherlock lets himself ponder the idea of his life with John stretching out and lasting for a good long while. He used to think he and John might die together, what with all their dangerous adventures, but now he thinks they might grow old together, too. 

**Summer**

There’s a heat wave in London, and everything is clammy and sticky, so Sherlock spends most of his time in the flat only in boxers. John goes to buy fans, but all they do is circulate the warm air, and they both spend their days covered in a near permanent sheen of sweat. 

They sit across from each other on the floor of the lounge, passing a packet of frozen peas wrapped in a towel between them, trying desperately to cool down. John touches his knees and his ankle and his collarbone and his earlobe, and it’s not really sexual, and Sherlock never really knew love could look like this before John. 

One day John buys Sherlock pants with prints of bees on them as a joke, and when Sherlock wears them around the house, John wanks him off until he comes in his pants like a teenager before kissing him for entirely too long considering the heat, and it’s all kind of perfect. John leans his forehead against Sherlock’s temple and for a long time they just share their short puffy breaths and comfortable silence. 

\--

One evening they go to McDonalds for dinner, and Sherlock spends the entire time complaining about the corporate nature of it, and John kicks his ankle under the table and says, “Honey, shut up,” and Sherlock can’t figure out if he’s intrigued or disgusted by the nickname, but John just laughs and kicks him playfully again. 

\--

In the start of July John goes drinking with some university mates, and spends so long kissing Sherlock goodbye that he doesn’t leave until he’s already twenty minutes late. 

Sherlock gets lost in an experiment upstairs, and doesn’t notice how late it is, or that John is standing in the doorway for five whole minutes before Sherlock sees him, a small smile playing on his lips. 

“Hey, you,” he says, when Sherlock notices him, and Sherlock pretends his heart doesn’t do a backflip at the words and at the way John looks in the moonlight, soft, dishevelled, and affectionate. 

“I love you,” he says, because he can, and because the way John’s face lights up will never get old. John walks up to kiss him sweetly, and runs a hand over Sherlock’s hair when he pulls away.

“I’m getting used to telling people about you,” he says, and Sherlock chuckles as he leans into the touch. 

“Are you, now?”

“Mh. Told the lads. Possibly even the bartender, I'm not sure,” John says, and the still-tipsy smile on his face could light up nations. Sherlock draws John back down to kiss him again. 

“You should be mine for a really long time. Like, forever, long,” John mumbles. Sherlock endeavours to get him into to bed as soon as possible to lessen the clearly-impending hangover of tomorrow, so gets up from where he’s been sitting, and leads John downstairs. 

“Really,” John says when they’re both cuddled under the covers, and he’s pressing his face to Sherlock’s neck. “Not just because I’m drunk. You should.”

Sherlock turns to look at him, and finds himself smiling at the sincere look he sees there. He leans in to press a kiss between John’s eyebrows before he says, “I’m planning on it.”

They fall asleep tangled together like first-time-lovers. 

\--

In July John buys a cactus for their bedroom, insisting that they need to test if they can keep something alive at the most basic level aka. the most resilient plant in existence. He also starts listening to The Clash like he did when he was young, and sometimes he jokingly sings to Sherlock while undressing him. Sherlock should mind London Calling being mumbled into his hip bones more than he does. 

\--

Sometimes when Sherlock gets distracted he’ll start humming Clash melodies, and every time John catches him doing it, he’ll smirk. Just to see that smirk again he learns to play London Calling on the violin. The look of pure lust and adoration that he gets, when he plays it for John, is worth everything

**Autumn**

In Autumn Sherlock’s hair gets frizzy and he can finally wear his signature coat again, plus they can have sex without dying of the heat, which they take full advantage of. They try to involve chocolate sauce in their adventures, but it ends up with John laughing against Sherlock’s stomach, their voices mingling in the quiet room, and Sherlock thinks that’s kind of an okay outcome, too. 

The next week, however, they include an extra amount of teasing, and when Sherlock lies panting, aching and spent but so satisfied, sprawled out on the bed with John breathing heavily somewhere by his thigh, he decides that that’s also entirely acceptable. 

\--

In October they’re on a case that almost goes wrong, and Sherlock spends 48 hours in A&E, and consequently so does John. When they get back home John undresses him quietly, and this time there are no songs. It’s not about sex, but about closeness, and the way John inserts himself in Sherlock’s personal space that night, and the way he holds him, like he might slip between his fingers, makes Sherlock heart break into tiny pieces. 

“I’m okay,” Sherlock tells him in the dark. “We’re okay.” 

John doesn’t reply, but holds him closer, and Sherlock pretends not to feel the wetness against his neck. 

“Are the cases really that important?” John whispers later, and Sherlock thinks maybe John thinks he’s asleep, because normally he would never imply that Sherlock is choosing anything over John, over them, and he’d certainly never ask Sherlock to make that choice. Needless to say he doesn’t reply, but even if he were to, he doesn’t know what he’d say. 

The next morning they’re sitting at the kitchen table, and John is holding Sherlock’s fingers between his, when Sherlock says, “I don’t know if I can choose.”

“What?”

“I mean, I can,” Sherlock continues. “If it’s a choice between you or anything, I’d pick you. Or us. But I don’t know if I could be happy giving up the cases yet.”

“I’m not asking you to choose,” John says. 

“But are you thinking it?” 

John doesn’t reply, but that is answer enough. For a long time neither of them say anything, and they both just stare at John’s fingers running over Sherlock’s palm on the table. 

“I like our life,” John says then. “I like the cases, I like the thrill. I need it just as much as you do.”

“I know,” Sherlock says. “But it’s getting worse. The fear of losing you. I feel it too, you know.”

“Now that I finally have you, it’s–“ John says, and Sherlock nods when he doesn’t finish the sentence, because he knows what John means. 

They don’t reach a conclusion, but that afternoon John interrupts Sherlock in the middle of an experiment and kisses him until his toes curl, so he thinks it’s going to be alright.

**Winter**

It does get better again, and by the time the 1st of December rolls around, they’re back to normal. Sherlock buys John an ugly Christmas jumper and secretly likes it, and John covers Sherlock in tinsel when they pull out their Christmas decorations. Sherlock rolls his eyes as John laughs hysterically and thinks of the blue box hidden in his sock drawer, and that even if he might not like the idea of marriage as a ceremony, he likes the idea of John and forever and a promise. 

“What are you thinking about?” John asks him, when he catches him staring. 

“You,” Sherlock says with honesty. “Us.” 

“Shut up,” John says, but Sherlock doesn’t miss the smile he tries to hide. 

\--

Sherlock is in John’s Christmas jumper, the fire is on, and John is running his hands up and down Sherlock’s shins, his legs resting in John’s lap. They’ve been having a lazy morning, and now they’re continuing with a lazy afternoon watching old cartons on the telly. If you had told Sherlock ten years ago that he would willingly do nothing while the telly played in the background for hours just to be close to someone, he would’ve declared you insane. 

“I love you,” he says, drawing John’s attention from the cartoons and onto him. It takes a moment for John to catch up, but then his face lights up in a smile. 

“I know,” he says, and squeezes Sherlock’s ankle. 

“No,” Sherlock says, because he doesn’t mean this in an off-hand kind of way, he really, really means it. “I love you,” he repeats. 

John must catch on because his smile gets smaller but warmer, and his voice is soft when he says, “I love you, too, Sherlock.”

“Mm,” Sherlock says and wriggles his leg for John to continue caressing it, which earns him a smile. 

John intertwines their fingers, then, and gives each of Sherlock’s knuckles a kiss, and it feels so grossly domestic, and yet this is all Sherlock wants for the rest of his life. 

“You should marry me,” he says, and in that moment it all just seems to click, and the box that he has been hiding for weeks is suddenly not so intimidating. After all, it’s just John, who already loves him more than anyone has ever done before. 

“Please,” Sherlock adds, when John turns his head to look at him with widened eyes. He watches as an incredulous smile creeps up on John’s features, before he breaks into a laugh.  
“Yeah,” John says, when he’s finished laughing, and is instead grinning widely. “Okay. Since you ask so nicely.”

“Manners are important,” Sherlock says. 

“Mm,” John mumbles, and leans into Sherlock to press a kiss to his lips. Just before they meet, he whispers, “Are you really proposing to me right now?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and is rewarded with a kiss, both sweet and hungry at the same time. 

“Is that a yes?” he asks, when John pulls back. 

“Yes,” John says, and chuckles breathlessly. “You bloody idiot. Of course.”

They kiss again and it’s all laughter and teeth and messiness, and Sherlock doesn’t mind at all.

“Wait. Hold on, wait,” he mumbles against John’s skin, when said person begins kissing down his neck and putting his hands up under his shirt. “Hold that thought,” he says to John’s surprised expression, and pulls himself away with difficulty, hurrying into the bedroom and into the sock drawer, pulling out the little box, before racing back again.

“What have you done, you silly man?” John asks, but the affection in his voice is enough to almost take Sherlock’s breath away, so he simply sits back down and hands the small box over. 

“It was my granddad’s, it’s sort of a family heirloom,” he says, when John opens the box and pulls out the silver band. 

“Sherlock,” John whispers, as he puts it on. Sherlock is pleased to see that it fits perfectly. “I love you,” John says. “I love you so much. God, I just–”

“I know,” Sherlock says, because the expression he sees in John’s eyes is a perfect mirror of how he’s feeling himself. 

“If I gave you the best sex we’ve ever had right now, do you think it would articulate how I’m feeling?” John says, and Sherlock laughs and thinks ‘This is the man I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.’

“I think,” he says, already pulling his jumper off to John’s widening eyes,” “that you should definitely try.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, shoot me a comment and say so? It's like marshmallow hot chocolate to me.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr at [tenderlock](http://tenderlock.tumblr.com) if you want to say hi  
> 


End file.
